Life at Roy's house settled into a rhythm that felt like a beautiful, temporary dream. For Asha, these were the "Golden Days." For Rohan and Roy, they were a desperate race against the sun.
Roy's home, with its white walls and breathing plants, became a sanctuary. The music room was no longer a place of survival; it was the heart of their world. Every morning, the house was filled with the smell of brewing coffee and the soft, acoustic melodies of Roy's guitar.
Asha lived between the blueprints and the music. She spent her mornings on the sun-drenched patio, her laptop hummed as she refined the Skyline Tower designs. She looked stronger, or perhaps it was just the illusion created by the expensive supplements and the sheer force of her joy.
"Listen to this," Roy said one afternoon, beckoning her into the music room. He played a sequence of notes—low, resonant, and hopeful. "I'm calling it The Architect's Theme. It's how your buildings sound in my head."
Asha sat on the floor, leaning her head against the piano. "It sounds like light reflecting off glass," she whispered, her eyes closing. "It sounds like... belonging."
Rohan, meanwhile, had become the silent pillar of their domestic life. The man who once couldn't be bothered to clean a beer bottle was now the one ensuring the humidifiers were full, the organic meals were served on time, and the heating was at the perfect temperature. He worked from Roy's living room, his sharp, corporate tone softening whenever Asha entered the room.
One evening, as the sky turned a bruised purple, Rohan found Asha standing by the Buddha portrait at the entrance. She was staring at it with a quiet intensity.
"What are you thinking?" he asked, stepping into her space.
"I was thinking about how much I used to hate the silence," she said, looking up at him. "It used to feel like loneliness. But here, with you and Roy... the silence feels like a choice. It feels like peace."
Rohan felt a lump form in his throat. He reached out, his hand covering hers where it rested on the doorframe. "You don't have to be lonely anymore, Asha. Not ever."
They spent their nights in the living room, a trio that made no sense on paper but was perfect in reality. They watched old movies, argued about architecture versus music, and laughed until their chests ached. Rohan would often catch Roy's eye across the room—a silent, heavy exchange. They were both counting the days. They saw the way her hand trembled when she lifted a teacup. They saw the paleness that returned the moment the steroids wore off.
On a particularly warm Sunday, Rohan took her to the garden. He had bought a dozen different types of jasmine and planted them himself, creating a path that mirrored her favorite park.
"Why are you doing all this, Rohan?" she asked, her voice soft as she brushed her fingers against a petal. "You were the playboy. You were the guy who didn't take anything seriously. Why me?"
Rohan stopped. The "Golden Days" were a lie, but his feelings were the only truth he had left. He turned her to face him, his hands resting on her shoulders.
"Because you were the only one who didn't look at me and see a trophy," he said, his voice raw. "You looked at me and saw someone who could be better. You kicked down the doors of my life, Asha. And I don't want to go back to the way it was before you."
He leaned down, his forehead resting against hers. For a moment, the world was just the scent of jasmine and the warmth of her breath.
"I love you," he whispered.
The words were a confession and a tragedy all at once. Asha pulled back slightly, her eyes wide and glistening with tears. "Rohan..."
"Don't say anything," he urged, his thumb tracing her cheek. "Just... let's just stay here. In this minute."
That night, for the first time, Asha didn't cough. She slept soundly, tucked under the white linens of Roy's guest room. But in the kitchen, Rohan and Roy sat in the dark, the "Golden Days" flickering like a candle in a storm.
"The pills aren't working as well," Roy said, his voice a ghost. "I saw her limp today when she thought I wasn't looking."
Rohan stared at his hands, the knuckles white. "Then we give her more. We give her everything until there's nothing left to give."
The sun would rise tomorrow, but the shadows were growing longer. The Golden Days were beautiful, but the gold was beginning to flake, revealing the cold reality beneath.